


This Ghost Was Not On My Lease!

by EmeraldAshes



Series: Ineffable Husbands Oneshots [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Minor But Y'all Deserve a Heads-Up), Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Comedy, Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Ghosts, If Haunting a Place Counts As Rooming There, Madame Tracy Being Fabulous, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Roommates, Suicidal Thoughts, Warlock Being a Little Shit, seances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldAshes/pseuds/EmeraldAshes
Summary: “There’s a ghost in your flat...So you’ve decided to antagonize it.”Crowley didn’t appreciate Anathema's tone or the slow rise of her eyebrows. “Well, it’s my bloody flat, isn’t it? If I’d wanted a roommate, I would have gotten one.”In which Aziraphale is haunting his old bookshop, and Crowley just wants some bloody peace.





	This Ghost Was Not On My Lease!

“They say it’s haunted,” a neighbor told him in the building laundry room.

“Do they now?” Crowley asked. “What do they say about getting this dryer to work?”

Madame Tracy hummed. “That’s a lost cause, love. You could try the one by the door.”

Crowley gave the dryer a kick, and it started up nicely. Negative reinforcement, he found, often led to positive results. “Haunted by who?”

“It used to be a bookshop, back in the 40s. There was a bookseller who was fond of the place, up until it was bombed with him sleeping inside. I suppose he’s still fond of it.”

“Right,” Crowley said. 

“We do seances on Thursday nights, Fridays when Shadwell has bowling club.” She clapped her hands. “Oh! And I almost forgot. Yoga’s on Tuesdays.”

* * *

Crowley had a way with plants. To be more specific, he had a way of terrorizing them. 

The first hint that something was wrong came when the dracaena started slouching. He hadn’t seen this sort of willful defiance since Newt had come for dinner and started gushing over the things – the last time his friend’s idiot boyfriend had been allowed in his place, mind you.

Crowley leaned in close, his breath making the leaves tremble. “Look, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they’re wrong. You’re not worth shit. You know it. I know it. And eventually, this person who’s been talking you up? Making you feel good? They’re gonna know it, too. Then it’ll just be you, me, and the garbage disposal. Think about that.”

At first, that had seemed to do the trick. Then, the crocuses had sprouted up as the wrong color.

* * *

Next, there had been the objects that moved when he wasn’t looking. Crowley’s small collection of books were rearranged in alphabetical order. Leftover takeout, left haphazardly on the table, was put away in the fridge. Clothes were placed on their hangers.

It was absolutely maddening. Crowley couldn’t find anything in all this organization.

* * *

“Look,” Crowley said, glaring at the ceiling. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you need to get out.”

The windows rattled ominously.

“I did some research. And by research, I mean that I looked up a couple articles on Google."

The windows banged open, letting in the rain. "Yeah, I thought that would piss you off, you bloody snob."

Crowley stalked over to close them, struggling against the wind as he yanked each window shut. “The point is that you need to leave this building, or at least the part where I live_._ I couldn’t care less about whether you’re bothering the neighbors...”

Crowley leaned against the still shuddering windows as he tried to remember what that one blog had said. “You don’t own this home anymore. You aren’t on the lease. It’s time to move on. Shoo.”

In the flat’s small kitchen, a light bulb exploded.

* * *

“This place stinks,” the child declared as he crossed the threshold.

Crowley sighed. Twelve was proving to be a difficult age. “We don’t all live in mansions, Warlock.”

“No, I mean it _smells_.”

Crowley sniffed the air experimentally. “Oh. That. That would be the sage. The flat’s haunted, so I’m trying to cleanse it.”

“Uncle Crowley, ghosts aren’t real,” Warlock said.

“Well, you might not think so, but the one who lives here clearly disagrees.”

“Crowleeey, I’m not a little kid anymore,” Warlock whined, looking every inch a petulant child.

“I know,” Crowley lied.

Once, he had promised himself that he would not be That Adult. The kind who asked the same questions all adults asked. In retrospect, this had been easier when Warlock was six and obsessed with dinosaurs, or when he was ten and started dabbling in Satanism. Unfortunately, Warlock’s current interests primarily consisted of rebelling against authority figures, such as Crowley himself.

With a sigh, Crowley asked him, “So. How’s school?"

* * *

“I went to the local library this time, and I have a couple of questions. Mainly, what the hell kind of name is Aziraphale anyway?”

A chill shot down Crowley’s spine. This was a typical occurrence as of late, so he ignored it. “At first, I thought it was Biblical. Like maybe it belonged to angel, which is ironic considering you’re such an arse. But then I Googled it, and it isn’t from the Bible. Instead, I’ve decided it’s just stupid.”

* * *

“There’s a ghost in your flat,” Anathema said.

“Yep.”

“So you’ve decided to antagonize it.”

Crowley didn’t appreciate her tone or the slow rise of her eyebrows. “Well, it’s my bloody flat, isn’t it? If I’d wanted a roommate, I would have gotten one.”

“Like anyone would agree to live with you.”

“That’s just hurtful, is what that is...Look, this is your area, isn’t it? Magic and ghosts and demons and things?”

“Yes.”

“So you have some suggestions about how to exorcise it.”

Anathema sighed. “He’s not a demon, Crowley. Frankly, he seems pretty friendly.”

Crowley scowled. “He’s a bloody _menace._ And you’re not much better. You have no advice? Really?”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Just this: Don’t start a war with the ghost that you’re living with. You will lose.”

* * *

Ghosts, unlike humans, are not restricted to the same daily needs that we are. For example, a ghost is not inconvenienced by clogged toilets or broken microwaves. Additionally, ghosts do not need to sleep. Crowley had not considered this previously.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Crowley came awake with a slow, serpentine blink. The clock read 3 a.m.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Whuzzit?” he called in his best approximation of the English language.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Crowley stumbled toward the door, whining softly in protest at the early hour. This was uncalled for, unless someone was dying. Frankly, it was uncalled for _regardless._

He threw open the door to an empty hall. Golden eyes stared dumbly at the emptiness. He took a step outside to make sure that no one was hiding behind the door. A child, perhaps, giggling at their oh-so-clever prank. It seemed like something that kid Adam and his friends would get up to.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And locked.

"You may have won this one,” Crowley grumbled when the super had finally let him in, “but I'd like to remind you that only one of us is dead."

* * *

Crowley came home looking for a fight. When one of the windows was thrown open _again_, he found one. “It is the middle of winter! I’m going to get sick and die and then I’ll come back and haunt you, you obnoxious prick!”

The ghost responded by flinging open every window in the flat. Alright, Crowley decided, today was a bad day. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and proceeded to make it worse.

Around the third shot, Crowley decided to address the elephant in the room, who was in fact, a slightly rotund bookshop owner from 1941. "So I went on a date. With a guy, by the way. Guessing that blows your little old-fashioned mind. Or maybe not. Confirmed bachelor and all that."

Crowley looked around the room, waiting for something to fall or shatter. “No comment, eh? Fine. Keep your secrets. So this guy, I met him online, good-looking chap. Down on his luck, though. The whole dinner, I kept thinking that his name sounded so familiar. He didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him. But I did. From somewhere. And then around dessert, it hit me.”

Crowley poured another shot. “It was from work. Do you know what I do? I ruin things. Every day. I feel bad about it, and I like to think that makes me better than my coworkers. But it doesn’t.”

“I wasn’t going to hang around and wait for this poor bastard to realize I’d worked to fuck up the next ten years of his life. So I went to the bathroom and then ran away like a little girl.” Crowley laughed harshly, falling back against the couch to stare at the ceiling.

He stared for a long time, until even the air seemed to shift uneasily waiting for him to speak. Finally, he said, “Is it easier being like you are?”

His eyelids began to droop as he muttered, “You can’t hurt people, not really. Just scare them a little.”

When Crowley woke up the next morning, the windows were shut and locked, a glass of water had replaced the whiskey bottle, and a blanket was tucked snugly around his shoulders.

* * *

The plants were still rebelling. The books had rearranged themselves into a bastardized, homebrew version of the Dewey Decimal system. The windows would rattle ominously when Crowley cursed. Also, somehow, the ghost had gotten a hold of Crowley’s credit card.

Frankly, Crowley would have been more concerned about that last bit if the spectral pest didn’t have such good taste in takeout places.

“I can feed myself, you know,” Crowley announced, carrying in a gyro wrap from a local place down the street. He unwrapped it. “I’m only eating this because you’ve already spent my money on it.”

Aziraphale’s silence hung heavily upon the flat. Crowley rolled his eyes. “What? A bloke forgets to eat for two days, and suddenly it’s an issue? It’s not like I _actually_ fainted. Just...swooned a little.”

Crowley contemplated throwing out the gyro just to prove a point, but the only point he would have proven was that his fridge currently had three items in it, two of which were condiments. He bit down and moaned. “Fuck, that’s good.”

The windows rattled.

“Nobody asked you,” Crowley said around a mouthful of the best lamb he’d had in ages.

* * *

Crowley said, "Look, you know I hate to ask you for anything. Primarily because you’re kind of a dick.” 

The curtains rustled indignantly.

“Yeah, whatever, angel. Anyway, my nephew's coming over, and he's getting just old enough that he doesn't really believe in...well, anything, come to think of it. So if you could rattle some chains or something, it would mean a lot to him."

* * *

Warlock gestured wildly at his new friends, bouncing a bit on his toes. "Then, the walls started bleeding!"

"Wicked," Adam said.

Pepper frowned, arms crossed. "Well, that hardly seems fair. The only thing our ghost does is move the books around."

"Uncle Crowley says they're feuding," Warlock added with great enthusiasm.

Warlock was bonding with Adam Young and his gang of troublemakers. The boy's mother probably would have disapproved, and the boy's father definitely would have disapproved. But, in Crowley's opinion, bad influences were the best influences.

Crowley leaned against the doorway of his apartment, watching as the kids bounded off toward some adventure of dubiously legal nature. He murmured, "I owe you one. Feel like I should leave an offering or something. Do people still do that? Whatever, doesn't matter. I do it now. Bloody good show you put on. I really liked the bit with all the screaming."

* * *

It was a Friday night, and Crowley was home alone. Sort of.

“You want to watch a movie?” Crowley felt goosebumps rise on his arms. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

As he rifled through his cupboards for a bag of popcorn, he said, “You know, when I first moved out on my own, my sister thought I should get a cat, make the place less lonely. I told her that it was better to be alone than living with a vindictive little creature that couldn’t even talk...So, anyway, I guess you’re my cat.”

The TV turned to static. Crowley laughed. “Oh, don’t be like that. We’re still doing the movie, right? I’m thinking Paranormal Activity.”

* * *

“So how’s life with Casper the Unfriendly Ghost?” Anathema asked the next time they met up for lunch.

“I’m going to a séance,” Crowley said.

* * *

“I, um, I don’t really believe in any of this,” Newt said apologetically as they all sat around Madame Tracy’s scratched kitchen table. The nervous young man looked like he didn’t belong, and to be fair, he didn’t. Frankly, he had only come because Anathema had invited him.

“Oh, darling, nobody does their first time.” Madame Tracy turned to a stocky older gentleman to her left. “Isn’t that right, Shadwell?”

“Enough evil in this home without inviting more in,” Shadwell said gruffly. 

Crowley wondered if he was referring to the undead about to be summoned or the odd group crowded around the table.

“Is there anything we should do? I brought a few things.” Anathema held up a large bag which bulged ominously in places.

“Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself.” Madame Tracy took a long drag from her cigarette, then waved her hand through the smoke, breathing deeply. “Ommmmm.”

Right, Crowley thought, so she’s a fraud then.

“Ommmmmmmmmmm.”

Waste of a Thursday night, but not the worst he’d spent.

“OMMMMMMMM.”

Might be good for a laugh, at least.

Madame Tracy’s voice fell to a whisper. "Alright, love, door's open. You can come in any time you like."

Suddenly, the older woman squeaked, jumping in her chair, then blushed brightly. "Oh! Eager today. Go on, then."

Madame Tracy began to tremble, making glugging noises in the back of her throat. Then, after a very uncomfortable two minutes, she turned to glare at Crowley. “The way you treat those poor plants should be _criminal._”

Crowley blinked. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Aziraphale! Who else? Don’t change the subject.”

He snorted. “They’re plants. It’s not like they have feelings.”

“Oh, please. If you really believed that, then you wouldn’t work so diligently to hurt those feelings. And on that note, I don’t like it when you talk over me.”

“What?”

Aziraphale-as-Madame-Tracy nodded sharply. “You’ll ask me a question, and then when I go to answer it, you start talking again before I finish my sentence — and oh, don’t give me that look. I know very well you can’t hear me, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wait a minute while I say my piece.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak.

“No, not another word, you have talked at me for several months now, and I dare say I am entitled to a few minutes to _respond._”

Crowley raised his hands in a “sorry, fine, go on” gesture.

“Goodness, but I cannot believe that you’ve spent this much energy trying to chase me out of my own home. And _yes_, I know that you’ve stopped, but I still have quite a lot of feelings about the whole thing.”

Aziraphale glared at him, breath heavy in Madame Tracy’s bosom. After a few moments, Crowley said, “Can I...?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale blinked. “Wait, really?”

“What? You didn’t think I would apologize?” Crowley said mulishly.

“Now you’re just picking a fight,” Aziraphale said.

“Right, yeah, apology. Look, you don’t pay the rent. Your standard of cleanliness borders on clinical. And frankly, you’re a bit of a bastard.”

“I see you have some work to do on your apology skills.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Anyway, despite all that, you’re probably the best roommate I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Madame Tracy’s breathy voice said.

“Madame, this is a private conversation,” Aziraphale informed her.

“Sorry!” she whispered.

“It’s been lovely living with you, too,” Aziraphale said. “Even the parts when we hated each other.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I still hate you plenty,” Crowley said cheerfully. “You never did tell me what you thought about that horror movie the other night.”

“Abysmal,” Aziraphale declared. “Did you say there was a sequel?”

Crowley grinned. “Five of them.”

Across the table, Newt made a pained noise in his throat. “Uh, wait, but what about...life after death, how does it work? Can you see my grandma?

Madame Tracy peeked out from her eyes, saying, “Love, it’s a private conversation.”

“Speaking of,” Aziraphale continued in her voice, ignoring their audience. “It’s cute how you think I would be scandalized by two men getting drinks together. I do know how that sort of thing works, you know. Confirmed bachelor and all that.”

Crowley laughed, then felt a sudden jolt of worry. He peered across the table at the unusual man hiding within his eccentric neighbor. “You’re not going to pass on to the other side, are you? Just up and disappear after all this?”

Aziraphale-as-Madame-Tracy stared at him. “What? Oh, no, absolutely not. I’ve been to the afterlife. It’s dreadfully dull.”

Crowley’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Oh, uh, good. That’s good, then.”

The possessed woman beamed. “Talk again next Thursday?”

**Author's Note:**

> That moment when you are NOT shipping your OTP because one of them is literally dead in this AU...but that chemistry though.


End file.
